Love Letters
by littlegreenlake
Summary: He never considered them as such … love letters that is, but, when all was said and done, he realized that's exactly what they were.
1. Chapter 1

**Love Letters**

without beginning - without end

Gunsmoke fanfiction

littlegreenlake

 _He never considered them as such … love letters that is, but, when all was said and done, he realized that's exactly what they were._

His friends soon learned the topic of Kitty Russell was to be avoided, as they strove to make peace with the one, without the other. He seldom smiled anymore, rarely laughed; his countenance often stoic and hardened. If there was a chink in his armor, it was in his eyes. His unguarded gaze showed such depth of hurt, that it was painful for them to observe.

He strapped on his gun, wore his badge and performed his duty to God and Country. He was Matt Dillon, U.S. Marshall, and no one doubted the fact. But, at night, alone in his office he struggled to find words to fill a blank sheet of paper, in effort to tell her just how much he missed her. He had no words in his vocabulary for longing, for love, for broken heart. He was Matt Dillon, U.S. Marshall.

Her absence was a burden to bear; always a load to carry. It dragged him down and made the simplest of tasks more difficult to perform. During the course of a day, the thought of her was often on his mind. As before she left Dodge City, something would happen and he would think, I have to remember to tell Kitty.

Yet, at day's glooming, he would stare at the barren paper and make feeble attempts, finally balling the unwritten letter in a wad and tossing it in the stove where it would flame and dissolve to ashes. He'd pull out the whiskey bottle and take several good swigs before kicking off his boots and going to bed.

One melancholy night, after his first swig from the bottle, it came to him with sudden clarity; how at the end of his nightly rounds, he would stop by the Long Branch and she'd be waiting up for him. They'd sit at a back table, side by side, thigh touching thigh, and talk about their day, while Sam shut down the saloon. Most times it wasn't anything serious, just little commentaries on the comings and goings of the citizens of Dodge. It was this realization that finally put him on the path to writing the letters that soon became as much a part of his day as those nightcaps at the Long Branch had been.

They were awkward attempts at first, for he was used writing detailed reports on the business of keeping the law - in terms of facts; concise and true.

 _Dear Kitty,_

 _It was warm out today, snow's completely melted. Town's been quiet._

 _Newly's got a new girl. She's a school marm. Came to town about a week ago. She's a few years older than he is, but they seem to get along. Newly introduced us all to her tonight at supper at Delmonico's._

 _Had venison stew. The meat was tough as cowhide._

 _Her name is Eunice._

 _Matt_

 _P.S. She's got brown hair._

He added the last part about the color of her hair, because he could almost hear Kitty asking him, "Well, what does she look like?"

His little epistle spoke nothing of the loneliness he felt without her near, but the words provided a connection, a starting point. In the morning he took the letter to the post office, and paid the two cents to send it to New Orleans. That night he followed the same ritual. He sat with a glass of whiskey at hand, and related something of his day. He tried to imagine her sitting right there across from him, smiling at him, ready to reach out to touch his arm with a soft and tender stroke.

 _Dear Kitty,_

 _Rained some today. Streets are muddy. Town quiet._

 _I heard that the whole Roniger family came down with chicken pox, even Bessie. Doc says that's not good since she's expecting again. What I can't figure out is how come it took so long for that family, with all those kids, to get the chicken pox in the first place._

 _Matt_

 _P.S. Did you get the stockings?_

Once again, he signed his name too quickly and had to add the postscript, for the thought had come to him, if he asked her a question he might be more likely to get a letter in reply. Oh, how he wanted that! Needed that, needed to know she was okay and that she knew he was thinking of her.

He was more comfortable with his letter writing by the next evening, he even looked forward to the process.

 _Dear Kitty,_

 _Still raining and it's getting on folks' nerves. There was a brawl at the Bull's Head and the Lady Gay. Long Branch was quiet._

 _Arrested Jimmie Taylor for stealing two of Russ Pritchard's chickens today. I offered to pay Pritchard for them, but he insisted Taylor spend the night in jail since Jimmie didn't have the money to pay for them himself. So right now Jimmie and Festus are back in the cell, playing their 15th game of checkers. If Festus had the money to pay Jimmie what he owes for each game he lost, Jimmie'd be able to buy Prichard's entire flock._

 _Do you recall that time we took supper with the Taylors? If I remember right, Mrs. Taylor served chicken and dumplings. Now, I wonder if Russ Pritchard contributed to that meal by way of pilfered poultry._

 _Matt_

He smiled when he signed his name, knowing she'd be smiling back. The image of her pretty face so keen in his mind, that the light of her eyes reflected in that sad lonesome place of his soul and he felt a small relief from the burden.

Each night as he wrote a note, he imagined her next to him as he spun his little tales. The letters became easier to write. Gradually they grew longer, sometimes, even giving small way to true emotion of his heart. While phrases of romance were as foreign to him as saying the name of her French perfume, he learned there was a power to painting pictures with words. What was it Dottie Bender had said? 'Give her reason to remember the good times and how much you care, that's what will bring her back to Dodge City.'

 _Dear Kitty,_

 _It snowed today. Snowing still. Everyone thought spring was here, but about noon the wind changed direction and picked up steam, by supper time it was coming down in big wet flakes. There's four inches or more on the ground tonight and the wind is blowing it around pretty good. I don't imagine it will last more than a day or so. Before you know it the trees will be leafing out and the wildflowers will be in bloom down by Silver Creek._

 _The wind sure is howling out there. It'd be a good night to be holed up somewhere with a warm fire, a bottle of that fancy Napolean brandy and a warm and friendly bed to crawl into._

 _I miss you._

 _Matt_

Maybe he was getting too good at this word picture thing, he reflected, for his heartache was as deep and cutting as if it were a fresh wound. He folded the letter and stuck it in an envelope, before he had a chance to change the last sentence.

The following morning on his way back from the post office, Matt stopped at the Long Branch to buy a bottle of Kitty's Napoleon Brandy. The price was dear, but he seemed to have more spare change in his pocket these days and had nothing better to spend it on. When he got back to the jailhouse, he placed it in the bottom drawer of his desk, next to the half-full bottle of whiskey.

There the brandy would remain, untouched, until Kitty wrote him back.


	2. Chapter 2

2.

 _Kitty's bedroom in her father's house - after the arrival of her birthday stockings._

She was crying. Her silent tears, a mixture of regret, exhaustion and loneliness. Her father was a difficult patient. He demanded her constant vigilance. A self-centered man all his life, he was even more so now. He was by turn, stubborn, moody, and repentant and slipped from mood to mood at the blink of an eye. She catered to his whims, for by her own choosing, he was all she had in the world. She didn't mind being busy; activity kept memories at bay. It was the long nights, as she sat by his bedside, that memories got the better of her. They seemed to have a will of their own, traveling with lighting speed from year to year, decade to decade, good times and bad.

Like a little girl Kitty Russell backhanded her tears away. She sniffled and then pulled a lace-edged hanky from the bodice of her gown's sweetheart neckline, to dab away the moisture. "Oh Matt." She mouthed the words and heaved a shaky sigh.

The birthday stockings and note, which had initiated the emotional outburst still lay in her lap.

He had remembered! This was perhaps, the singularly most surprisingly sweet present, she could ever recall from Matt Dillon. He had remembered and had gifted her, with no hints or gentle nudges on her part. It could have been due to the fact the previous year, he had completely forgotten the date. His omission had been forgivable because he was off tracking the Belling Gang, down along the border area between Kansas and Indian Territory, known as the Cimarron Strip. He'd returned to Dodge two weeks later with an infected knife wound inflicted in service to the Badge, while apprehending gang leader, Frank Belling. After his return, she had been too consumed by worry, to guilt him into recalling the occasion. A month later, he, healed and handsome came in the crowded saloon with a box of store bought candy, tied with a blue ribbon bow. Finding her working at the far end of the bar, he called her over and presented it to her.

"What's this for?" She'd asked. She wore a red sequined gown and her hair was piled upon her head in fanciful ringlets

"Your birthday." He wore a freshly laundered blue shirt and smelled of barbershop bay rum. The scent on the man, was intoxicating to her.

She smiled, "You remembered! A little late, but still you remembered."

"Doc told me." He admitted.

"Oh." They'd been together for nearly twenty years, and her birthdays were becoming a more sensitive topic with each one passing. She'd be happy not to acknowledge her advancing years, but still the fact he had to be reminded of the day was a blow to her esteem.

Business was good that night, every table was full and the air was rife with stale cigar smoke, spilled beer and dusty cowpokes. Amidst the rowdy customers, who were more concerned with games of chance, whiskey and flirty saloon gals, they attracted little attention.

He grinned at her, that special smile reserved for her alone, the one that reminded her of a naughty little boy, charming his way out of a spanking. "I've got another present for you."

"You have?"

He glanced around the saloon, just to make sure they were not being observed and then leaned down and whispered in her ear. His breath was hot and steamy and the titillating promises he made caused her cheeks to flush. She gave him a gentle shove and bit her lip, wanting to scold him, but wanting more, to throw back her head and laugh with lustful anticipation.

He bent his head again. She didn't push him away, but waited in wanton eagerness, hoping he would elaborate. It wasn't words that came from his mouth, but his tongue. Just a quick sensuous flicker on the sensitive lobe of her ear, to serve as reminder of one of his many talents in the bedroom.

That night he had fulfilled his promise, not once or twice, but three times.

The memory, though a year old was still fresh enough in her mind to provide a small aftershock of pleasure. She gave herself a mental shake. Memories like that came with a price, and she was no longer willing to pay.

She sat back in the chair in her father's house and examined the gift in her hands. These stockings could not have been completed on short notice, they were a planned present, ordered well before the desired date. On sudden impulse, she slipped off her shoes, removed her stockings and then pulled on the new ones in the floral redwork design, first the one and then the other. As she did another memory formed from the shadows. She had been slow to recover from the injuries of body and soul at the hands of Jude Bonner's men. When after twenty-five days of convalescence, she finally convinced Doc she was ready to return to her suite at the Long Branch, it had been Matt, who had helped her finish dressing. Coming to escort her home, he found her sitting in a chair, pallid faced and alone in the office. Doc had been called out on an emergency. She had managed to put on her underclothes , skirt and blouse, but her legs and feet were still bare, for the effort to bend her weak and tender body, too much to accomplish. He hadn't scolded her as she feared he might, for attempting to dress without help, instead, he kneeled on the floor in front of her, working the stockings up her leg. He had administered the feat with loving gentleness. Talking as he did, of a trip they had made to St Louis some years earlier, taking away the self conscious helplessness she felt at not being able to perform the task herself. The simple gesture, more than any words of love showed her how precious she was to him and served as a balm to her healing.

She could escape Dodge, but the memories could never be outrun. She picked up the note he'd sent with the gift, reading it again, holding it closer to the flame of the kerosine lamp, so she could study each stroke of his handwriting. He had made no comment regarding the letter she'd left for him, other than the return admonition, to take care of herself too. She'd said some harsh words and hard truths. He had contested neither but instead bade her the wise adage, 'distance doesn't change what's in the heart'.

Well, she was proof of that wasn't she?


	3. Chapter 3

3

Morphine was the only 'thing' that mattered. It made the old man's life tolerable; not the devotion of his daughter, his grand home, servants or wealth, none of these mattered. He was a man who'd never committed himself to the encumbrance of loving another human being. His ambition had always been for himself, if someone else benefited from his gain, so be it, but the grace of a selfless love had never driven Wayne Russell. Now at this final juncture of life, it was the drug, which provided all the solace he desired; an escape from pain and the reality that was his impending death.

Dr. Fletcher had told Kitty her father had only a short time to live, "just months really. All we can do is see that he is comfortable."

Noticing the exhausted state of Mr. Russell's daughter the doctor suggested nurses be hired to relieve some of her load. The nurses never lasted more than a day before Mr. Russell's charm wore thin. Inevitably, the task of caring for her father fell to Kitty.

She lived in that vague and weary land known to caregivers; ruled by schedules that couldn't be followed, meals that went uneaten and sleep that came only in restless spurts. Yet, through all the turmoil in her life, the thought of Matt Dillon was always near the surface, like the proverbial itch that couldn't be scratched.

Throughout the hours spent at Wayne Russell's bedside, she would compose letters in her mind, but when she sat down to actually write them, she was too weary to find the words. Thus, her thoughts remained her own, unshared, unspoken, and when all was said and done, she decided that was probably for the best.

It was several days after she received the birthday stockings that Matt Dillon's letters started to arrive.

As was the practice now, Margarite had placed Kitty's mail on a side table in her room.

Bone weary, Kitty had slipped into her suite shortly after dark that evening. There was a small stack of letters waiting for her. Several of them were in connection with her father's business interests, but there was also one from Doc and to her great surprise, one from Matt Dillon.

She read Doc's letter first. It was filled with news and kind council, for he knew Kitty would work herself weary with the effort to nurse her ailing father. He spoke of Newly's new love interest. Festus' latest battle with gout and the Roniger family's chicken pox. He didn't mention Matt, nor did she imagine he would, for he was ever careful not to cross the point the pair had delineated in the sand of their relationship. His ending sentence was as close as he came, "You are missed dearly by all of us who love you."

Then, she picked up the sealed envelope which contained Matt's letter. Just for a moment, she savored the delicious thought that for a blink in time he was with her. Wanting to mark the occasion, she poured herself a small glass of brandy and then sank down on the cushions of the Eastlake boudoir fainting couch that occupied a corner of her room. She took several sips before opening the letter. She didn't expect much, for she'd received letters from him over the years. Most contained a timetable at best, or a request that she do something for him in his absence. Rarely did he share his experiences or any words of love or even friendship. Still, she sorely needed this connection with him to shore up her weakening defenses.

She smiled at the brevity of it, but in a few sentences he had filled her in on everything she'd needed to know. Most certainly Newly's new girl was a pretty young thing, but he made no mention of her looks except to say, she had brown hair. Matt was a man who appreciated physical beauty, yet he wasn't looking beyond the obvious. She read the short note again and again, each time his voice became clearer and by the time she finished her third class of brandy she felt transported to the back table of the Long Branch with Dillon at her side.

She held the letter in hand and leaned back against the chaise, closing her eyes as she did. Her exhaustion, the spell cast by the liquor, and the unexpectedness of the letter filled her with a bittersweet warmth, and as happens in times such as those, she was lured into the memories of her time in Dodge.

Before she could pull back to reality, she was caught in the web of those seven tenebrous hours to dawn, when Mace Gore's gang took over the town. The image of Matt Dillon's bloodied body, lying lifeless on the dusty streets of Dodge City, was one that had haunted her nightmares; brought on the pounding of her heartbeat and sweat to pour from her body. It was recurrent, coming to her in hours of weakness and fear. She fought past the abhorrent image, recalling how, after several hours of leaving her to grieve alone, Doc, had returned to escort her to Ma Smalley's Boarding House, where he and that kind lady had sat with her at the kitchen table. She hadn't wanted to leave her room, had seen no reason to, and couldn't understand why Doc insisted he stay at her side. Numb with grief, she had said nothing, and Ma, having lost her own man, many years before had sat with them, quiet and calm, offering little more than a pot of herb tea as comfort. A rapid succession of gunshots, coming from the Long Branch had roused them from this solemn reverie. She had jumped to her feet and run to the front of the house. Doc followed, moving between her and the door. With his hand on the knob, he ordered "Stay here until I come back for you, until I know it's safe."

Safe? She cared not for her safety, for nothing of this world mattered, her heart and soul had been blown to irretrievable bits on Front Street, seven hours before. They could shoot her too, it would be a relief, a blessing, not to have to bear this mantle of grief, but to be lying by his side in the dank cold of Percy Crump's back room. In her moment of hesitation, obsidian with hopelessness; Doc left her, racing toward the saloon in his old man gait, medical bag in hand. She ran after him. "Get back to Ma's." he ordered in breathless voice.

"No." She declared defiantly.

He stopped at the batwing doors of the Long Branch, gazing inside before taking her hand and giving it a squeeze. Then, he walked her through the swinging doors.

Nothing had prepared her for what she saw. Her heart reacted with such a violent jolt that it took her breath away. Matt Dillon sat there on a bar chair, hunched in pain, hand clutched to side, blood seeping from the bullet hole, staining his fingers red; his battered face, ashen, his eyes dull, barely focusing; but alive. He was alive! He looked up and their gaze locked. She tremulous; wiling with all her might, that this mirage before her, never fail. He needing her, yet, unable to find the reserve of strength, to lift his wounded body from the chair.

She ran on unsteady feet, her heart jumping in her chest, as if pulled free from internal restraints. She knelt to the floor beside his chair, wrapping her arms around him, feeling the heat that meant life, emanate from his dear, dear body. He was alive, and not the figment of desperate hope or Ma's magic potion tea.

She turned to Doc, suddenly angry with his betrayal, "Why, why did you let me think he was dead?"

It was Festus who stated the truth, she would have eventually figured out once her brain and heart synced to a sensible rhythm. "He had ta Miss Kitty. Doncha see, if he hadn't they'd a finished Matthew off fer sure."

Afraid to ask, yet needing the truth, she questioned Doc, "Will he really be alright?"

Doc's gaze was infinitely kind. In his eyes was the apology for the hurt he'd inflicted by not being honest with her. He found a smile, knowing the right of his answer would begin to heal her heartache, "He says so, and I think he will, that is, if he gets an awful lot of special attention for the next two or three weeks."

Tears, unabashed filled her eyes,"I'll just see what I can do about that." Matt's weak grip on her arm tightened, urging her closer. As they cleaved to one another, he repeated the refrain of what was their life song together. 'It's alright Kitty, everything's going to be alright."

"Kitty, I need you, Kitty." The sound of her father's sickbed cry, jerked her rudely from that tender recollection. She was reluctant to leave, for the memory, always so rooted in terror and grief, was now replaced by the power of Matt's unconquerable selfless strength. A strength of heart, which never admitted defeat, and always held tight to the unfailing refrain; everything would be alright. For the unspoken truth, which bound them together and gave them the strength to endure, was love. It was love, which was the 'thing' that mattered.


	4. Chapter 4

4.

She had changed his dirtied linen, washed his soiled body, helped him put on a fresh night shirt, and settled him back between the clean sheets. He, grumbling all the while, hissing oaths and curses as she administered to him.

The strength of his voice belied his failing body, "Tramp! That's all you are, tramp, no daughter of mine; just some bastard child, your mother tried to pawn off on me. That's why I left, she was a tramp too. The only reason you're here now, is for my money!"

She ignored his rude comments although it grated her proud spirit to do so. She bit back a thousand retorts and responded in a mild voice, "That's not true, Father." She smoothed out his bedding and straightened her back. "You'll feel better once the medicine has eased your pain. Shut your eyes now, sleep."

He did as she bade, but uttered hatefully, behind the shield of closed eyes, "You'll not get a cent of it, not one red cent."

She replied, in the softest of voice. "It's not your money I need, Father."

He was no longer listening. The strong dose of laudanum was potent enough to suck him into a netherworld and would tide him over until the doctor came later in the morning with the morphine injection. When his breathing had evened out she left him and returned to the sanctuary of her room.

She took a seat in front of the William and Mary mahogany secretary desk, a lovely thing, with a drop down lid, which formed a smooth surface upon which to write. There were little cubby holes and secret drawers. It was topped by an ornate hutch with leaded glass doors and filled with handsome leather bound books, with gilt tooling, written in French.

Here, safe from prying eyes, in a locked drawer were the letters from Matt. She took the neat bundle out, undid the ribbon and let them spread across the desk top. With the tip of her finger she touched each one, counting as she did. There were seven letters now, she didn't doubt the day's post would bring yet another. Her beautiful face was set, showing no emotion and it was as if she were playing poker with her soul; afraid to give away her hand. Then, the armor failed, the chink appeared. She bowed her head in supplication to whatever God ruled the universe and pled, 'Please, please, I need him, I need now.' She bit her lip and made a fist of each hand and beat them hard on the desk. The letters jumped and several fell to the floor. Her body tensed and then relaxed. She inhaled a great deep breath before taking paper and pen in hand to write the long overdue letter.

My dearest Matt,

I can't begin to tell you how much I look forward to your letters. Somedays, it seems they are he only thing that keeps me going and looking forward to tomorrow. Do you know that? How could you? But, you know me so well, better than I've ever let anyone know me.

It's been days and days since we've seen sun shine. Rain is constant and everything feels damp and cold. How I wish I could see the sun sparkle on the snow, clean and pure, feel the crisp cool winter air against my face again.

My father is always demanding something of me, which, I find difficult to give. He is on medication which alters his mind, and I never know what to expect from him, he can change in the blink of an eye. He says mean, hateful things, cursing me and even my mother. Yet, there are times I feel he does care for me, as a parent does their child, but mostly I think he is using me. I know he is ill and in pain, and I feel guilty for resenting him. But, I do.

I am so lonely. Heartsick, is the word, I miss everyone back in Dodge, I miss seeing a friendly smile; a caring look. I miss Doc's wise counsel, I miss Festus and that way he has of making me laugh at the oddest times, and Newly's common sense. Most of all, I miss you. I miss being held in your arms, your kisses, your passion, I miss the heat of our nights together and the first light of morning being held safe and warm in your embrace. I am so lost, adrift, without anchor, or direction, just moving from day to day with no hope of a better tomorrow.

Please keep writing, I need you so.

Kitty

Her tears had blotched the ink on the page and by the time she had signed her name her shoulders heaved in muted sobs. She held her handkerchief to her mouth to stifle any cries that might escape. Her body ached from the pain of suppressed sorrow.

Yet, from within the deepest wallow of self pity came that reserve of strength and pride, which had always been her hallmark. She picked up the paper, read again her words, feeling shame at her show of weakness, at exposing the soft underbelly of her character. With stiffened spine and firm jaw, she crumbled the letter in a ball and threw it in the trash basket. She wiped away her tears, took a long drink of strong tepid coffee and began composing a new letter.

Matt,

I've received your last seven letters and thought I'd better take a moment to respond.

I smile when I read of your snow and toasty fires. The weather here, although rainy, is delightfully warm for this time of year. I'm sure we will soon be enjoying sunshine and magnolia blossoms.

My father's home is quite comfortable. His second wife, who passed away some years ago, was well to do. He lives in an old, yet fashionable part of the city. We have servants who tend to our wants and prepare lavish meals. I could get used to such luxury.

Father's condition remains the same. The doctor suggests he only has a few months left to live, but I've seen no further decline and am hopeful he may have longer than the doctor believes.

I am thankful for the chance to spend this time with him. We have enjoyed getting to know one another and I find we share many interests and beliefs. I've also had the opportunity to meet many of our friendly neighbors who frequently visit.

I do appreciate your letters, but really there is no need for daily correspondence. I know how busy you are.

Please give my regards to all.

Kitty Russell

She signed her name to the tale of lies, adding Russell, to build a wall of separation. It would never do to let down her guard, to let him guess her true feelings or circumstances. She hadn't left Dodge City to see him come running to her aid, the first time she cried for help. She had burned those bridges when she'd sold the Long Branch. She was on her own and for better or worse she was in charge of her destiny.

Her father was calling her. Her senses now so attuned to his needs that she could hear his weak voice through closed doors and long echoing hallways. She supposed she should move her room to one closer to his. She slid the letter into the envelope and addressed it. Leaving it on the side table for the parlor maid, Margarette to pick up and post. She took a perfunctory glance in the mirror, noting her pale face was still blotchy from tears. What did it matter? There was no one to care how she looked. She winced. Was this really her, acting like a spoiled child? She'd always detested those who garbed themselves in self-pity, wearing it like a cloak, to show the world their long suffering status. Had she fallen so low that this was her mindset? No! Damn it! She turned back to the mirror, starred at her face and then reached for powder and rouge.


	5. Chapter 5

Margarette, was a pretty young woman. Her skin was smooth and dark, her features delicate and refined. Upon her head she wore a regal red turban, as an African princess might wear a crown. Gold hoops, passed down from her mother, looped her ears. She was gowned in a black broadcloth dress; a pristine white pinafore, with large lace trimmed pockets, covered her uniform. Born after the War Between the States, she hadn't know slavery, yet lived much the same life as her mother, who had been. For as long as she could remember, she had worked in the house on the corner of Carodelet and Foucher Streets. As a little child, she'd trailed behind her mother, as she went about her daily chores, helping when she could. Her mother had been Madam Russell's personal maid. The lady of the house had been born Marie Angelique LaFreniere, daughter to Pierre Hubert LaFreniere, heir to a name as old as the city of New Orleans itself, when still in her teens she had married Woodrow Hawkins. Mr. Hawkins had perished in the war, leaving Marie Angelique a widow at a young age. Margarette's mother, Lea, had served Marie Angelique all her life. She had sat in the chair next to the young Marie Angelique when the Parisian tutor came to teach her French, and the slave child had learned the lessons as well, in later years it was Lea who had read the French romances to her mistress, whilst Marie Angelique LaFreniere Hawkins Russell lay ill abed.

Margarette waited outside Mademoiselle Kitty's room, with a cleaning bucket filled with supplies in hand. When the door opened Margarette greeted her, "Bonmaten, Mademoiselle Kitty."

Kitty, her face, despite the hastily applied powder, still blotchy from her earlier tears, returned the salutation. "Good morning, Margarette. There's a letter to be mailed, if you would please?"

Margarette gave a smile and a little curtsy as Kitty passed, before entering the room. There was never much to do, for Mademoiselle was as fastidious a lady as the young maid had encountered. The bed was always made, clothes put away and table tops dusted. Margarette surreptitiously paused in front of the secretary desk, quickly, she opened the leaden glass doors, removed a book from her apron pocket and slid it on the shelf. She made a swift perusal of the remaining titles before choosing another love story. Then with a heightened sense of urgency, hid this new book, in her deep apron pockets. Having been taught to read French from her mother, Margarette had no difficulty in reading the novels. However, no one had given her permission to borrow the books and she felt a nagging guilt for taking them. She adjusted the book in her pocket insuring it was of a low profile. Her fingers lingered, just one short moment, already anticipating the delectable pages of the latest romance. The novels were always tragic, their pages filed with the angst of unrequited love, duty, honor and ill health. They were addictive and each one took her on a journey of tears and peine d'amour.

Enough time wasted on her own concerns, she got back to work. She saw the letter waiting to be mailed and that too was placed in a pocket. The wastebasket needed to be emptied, she picked up the container, balanced it on her hip, grabbed the small pile of laundry to be washed, the cleaning bucket and headed downstairs to the kitchen, with arms full.

Hattie, the cook was kneading bread dough and looked up when Margarette entered the room.

Margarette's speech was a mixture of the Parisian parlor French she had learned from her mother, the more earthy Cajun Gumbo spoken by the former slaves and the formal English she'd heard from the Monsieur and Mademoiselle, "Ze coffee ready?" Margarette asked. "I needs to take zee tray up to Monsieur Russell."

"Coffee fresh,'n so is de beignets. I set some aside for me and you. Come on back to de kitchen after you done tended him, Honey Lamb."

Margarette smiled at the endearment. Hattie had been her mama's closest friend, and now looked over Margarette, offering friendship or mothering as the situation called for. The younger woman returned the sentiment in kind. As she readied the tray, she said, "Oui, chère mère."

LLLLLL

When she returned to the kitchen, Hattie had set a pretty table, with a patchwork of china, suitable for servant use only. Chipped Havilland cups, in the Ardennes pattern and Limoges saucers and plates of gilt and wild roses. On the saucers rested slightly bent sterling silver coffee spoons and butter knives in Tiffany's Audubon inspired Japanese pattern. Irish lace napkins with permanent grease stains, were folded, so the casual observer would have no idea they were less than perfect. On a lavish, but cracked crystal pedestal cake server, rested fresh pastry, attractively arranged. In it's own mismatched way, it was as elegant a table as the fine old house could offer. Hattie was already in her chair waiting for the maid to arrive.

"How he doin' today?" She asked as she poured rich strong coffee into each of their cups.

"Environ la même, zee same, Monsieur whining and moanin' and telling Mademoiselle she no account for ignoring him most his life."

"You think dat true?"

"Non, Mademoiselle Kitty is a good woman, whatever come between her and her papa was no fault of hers."

"Dat's de truth of it, she always real polite to me, sayin' 'please 'n thank you.' n telling me what a fine cook I is."

Margarette took a sip of the coffee and and then bit into the doughnut. The abundant powdered sugar rimmed her mouth, she licked her lips and reached into her pocket to pull out her hanky, for she didn't want to soil the linen napkin, which would just mean more laundry for her or Marcella, the other house maid. As she pulled out her handkerchief, her fingers came in contact with the letter to be mailed."Vois ici, see, Hattie! Mademoiselle wrote to zat man who been sending her all zee letters!" She pointed to the name on the front, reading aloud, enunciating the words carefully, "Marshal Matt Dillon, Dodge City, Kansas."

"He must be somethin' special."

"Oui, she keeps his letters 'til zee end of zee day, like saving somethin' sweet for zee dessert."

The ladies exchanged a smile and then their faces grew a little sad, Margarette continued, "It is zee bad thing, he so far away." She gave the envelope a little tap with her forefinger, "I will get this out to zee mailbox so's zee postman can pick it up."

She stood, with letter in hand, glancing at the wastebasket, with a sigh. "I'd best get zee rubbish out to zee burn pile too."

The mailbox stood at the end of a herringbone patterned brick walkway, Margarette placed Miss Kitty's letter inside, putting the flag up, so the postman would know there was a pick-up, and then proceeded to take the rubbish to the metal cylinder where the 'one day a week boy', burned anything that had been accumulated there. It was while tossing the garbage in the cylinder that Margarette noticed the balled up letter. She was not a nosey woman, at least not more so than most, but she did have a natural curiosity, especially when she saw the opening words of, 'Dear Matt' exposed on the crumpled paper. She glanced around quickly, just to make sure she wasn't being observed and then shoved the letter in her apron pocket. A little while later in the privacy of her small room she removed the paper and spread it out on the little table by her bed. Using the palms of her hands, she flattened out the wrinkles. Some of the words were blurred where moisture had caused the ink to smear, but with a little patience she was able to make out what the Mademoiselle had written. By the time she came to the final line, her nose was running and tears dripped down her cheeks onto the letter, mingling with Kitty's already spent tears. She sopped the moisture from her eyes and nose. "Tragique, poor Mademoiselle", she whispered, It was, as if the pages of the last romance she'd read, Insigne d'Honneur, were coming to life before her eyes.

She thought of the letter waiting in the mailbox for the postman to pick up. Without further ado, she folded the wrinkled paper and placed it in the confines of her mother's tattered Bible, where no one would disturb it, and rushed out to the front of the house. She got there just as the mailman was about to leave.

"Monsieur Pietch, Sir!" she said, with a breathy catch to her voice, "Mademoiselle Kitty, don't want ze letter to go out."

Mr. Pietch, an amiable man, smiled, "You just about missed me, Margarette." He reached in his mailbag and rummaged through the post to be mailed. "Here it is." he said, handing it to her along with several parcels of new mail.

She bobbed in a quick bow, "Je vous remercie, thank you."

She took the letter and deliveries and bid Mr. Pietch, "Bonmaten." With shaking fingers, she shoved the stolen letter into the depths of her deep apron pocket, and ran back into the house.

Her heart was thumping wildly in her chest at the deception. It occurred to her briefly, that perhaps she had read one too many French romantique, for in her mind, she could almost picture Mademoiselle's Marshal, oh, he would be tall and handsome, and gallant and chivalrous, just as la belle Kitty was courageux and compatissant. Most certainly they were, heroic lovers, separated by duty and honour. She stamped her foot, in a gesture of determination. If she had anything to say about it, this was one romance that was not going to end 'tragique'. She gave a deep sigh and nodded her pretty head, already plotting a happy ending.


	6. Chapter 6

6.

Guilt is an unforgiving companion. It dwells in the region between sternum and gut and there, it incessantly nags thoughts and haunts dreams. It becomes all consuming and life defining. This was Margarette's plight. She was in possession of two letters, which were neither written to her or by her. She was aware of the unlawfulness of her actions, and knew full well, she could be sent to prison for interfering with the U.S. Mail. At the heart of it, she knew two lives balanced precariously on the fulcrum of her actions. After reading and rereading the second letter again and again, Margarette, convinced herself, she was following the only course which might lead to a happy ending for the gallant Mademoiselle Kitty. Although, the young woman fretted over what to do, even considered admitting to her sins; in the end, she stuck both letters in a new envelope and mailed them off to Kansas.

"You feel'n poorly, chil'?" Hattie asked, when she noted the younger woman's uncharacteristic moodiness.

Margarete responded, "Je vais bien, I'm fine." She offered a weak smile to confirm her words.

Hattie, was no fool, especially, when meals were left untouched and it was clear Margarete wasn't getting the sleep she needed; for she grew thin and hollowed-eyed. The older woman worried over the girl, dosed her with tonic and finally asked, "What is you so moony eyed 'bout Honey chil'?" Then, it came to her suddenly, the realization; spring was in the air and the young man who saw to the gardening, was spending a lot of time, hanging around the back door and asking after Margarette "Is you hankerin' after some no-count boy?"

"Excusez-moi?" Margarette asked, the symptoms of an ill conscience written all over her face.

"See! That's just what I mean, you doan know if you is coming or you is goin'."

Margarette thought of the envelope she'd mailed off to the U.S. Marshall in Dodge City, Kansas. She swallowed hard and forced a smile. It occurred to her that was not exactly an accurate statement, for she figured there was strong likelihood she was coming to a bad end and going to straight to jail. Any lawman worth his salt would figure out her transgression, and to top it off she'd enclosed what amounted to a letter of confession.

^..^

The lawman had been gone on routine business for ten days and had sent letters to Kitty Russell, from four different locations; three from Kingman, Kansas, three from Wichita, three from Squaw Creek and one from Hutchinson. Even out on the trail, he'd kept up the practice of writing one letter a night. He addressed and sealed the envelopes and on the back side in the left hand corner he wrote the date of his writing, acknowledging the erratic nature of the postal system; so she would have some sense of continuity should it matter to her. It did occur to him, that perhaps she didn't care and found the daily flow of correspondence a nuisance. However, the letter writing had become more than a habit by this time, it was therapy to his bruised spirit.

He returned to Dodge, at dusk on a quiet night. He dropped the buckskin off at Hank's noting that Kitty's horse, Isabella's stall was marked with a 'for sale' sign tacked to the door.

Hank saw the direction of Dillon's gaze and answered the question before it could be asked. "Miss Kitty sent me a note with her boarding fee, asked me to sell the mare to a good home."

"How much?" Matt asked.

Hank named the price. It was a small sum, but took every last bit of cash Matt had left in his wallet. Without much thought, he paid the money and Isabella was his. He thought ruefully this was the second time he'd bought the horse, the first time had been 15 years earlier for Kitty's birthday. A grateful rancher had offered to pay him a reward for settling a potential range war before blood was shed. Dillon had declined, saying it was all part of his job. Then, he'd seen the strawberry roan filly, trotting daintily around the corral. He'd asked about her and the rancher had replied. "Too small for breeding, ain't strong enough to pull a farm wagon or act as a pack horse … only thing a horse like that is good for is fancy ladies. N,case you haven't noticed, ain't nary a one of 'em around here."

"How much?" Matt had asked.

The rancher gave him the snake eye. "What's a big Marshal like you gonna do with a scawny filly like that'n?"

A crooked smile worked it's way across Dillon's features, "Could be I know a fancy lady, who might just take a shine to her."

She had cost him his favorite bowie knife. The price had been well worth the cost, for the joy he felt every time he saw Kitty ride the horse, was compensation enough. What a sight they had made, Kitty's pony tail a near perfect match for that of her horse; she, in stylish riding habit, sitting sidesaddle on the pretty little filly. He was lost in that memory for a beat, until Hank interrupted him.

"Board's paid up till the end of the month, Marshal." Hank told him.

Dillon nodded, and then grabbed his saddle bags and rifle and left the stable without further word. The walk to his office was not a long one, but it involved passing the Long Branch, that haven he'd considered a home for so many years. Most days in Dodge, since she'd left, he'd hardened his mindset into thinking the saloon was just another business on Front Street. Yet, on this evening, walking past the batwing doors, he couldn't help but pause to look. The piano player in the corner was plinking out the melody to some worn out tune, through a cigar-smoke filled haze, he caught the sparkle of sequins on a black gown, the flash of red hair, as a saloon gal sashayed between the customers, working her way back to the bar and his mind was propelled to another time, not so long ago, when he'd returned to Dodge.

He'd left her, left the town, the badge, left everything he'd held dear in an effort to protect them, from defending him. His gun arm was little more than a useless appendage and his body weak from blood loss and pain. Of course, she'd been there when he left. He'd pulled himself up into the saddle using more grit than strength. She stood watch. Eloquently silent. "I'll keep in touch." He'd promised. The sight of her beautiful sad face was one that cut deep to his soul; for in that moment of departure, a bond so sure held him to her, a bond that time and place could never sever.

In due course, he'd returned, stronger and infinitely wiser in the things that mattered. He'd sent no advanced warning, and on a night very much like this one, he'd walked to the batwing doors of the Long Branch, to see her sitting alone at a table doing end-of-the-day book work. A vision of her, had ever shadowed his dreams, but seeing her in the flesh, rise to stand before him, brought dreams to life, and life to his heart and soul.

"Hello, Kitty." He'd said, his words hardly romantic. It was his heart, which spoke through the love in his eyes.

"Oh, Matt …" She'd replied, acknowledging she'd heard every word his heart had uttered.

A rickety wagon with plodding mules and jiggling harness passed by; jarring him from his thoughts. "Howdy Marshal, good to see you back in town." Farmer Wentz called out, from the buckboard bench.

Dillon nodded his head in return. "Good to be back, Wilber." He replied, with little heart. He righted his load and continued down the boardwalk. The badge on his chest weighed heavy. Once again, the star and shield, a bitter reminder of his allegiance to a job and the price of duty and honor.


	7. Chapter 7

7

Matt Dillon stood on the boardwalk in front of the jail house, as he had so many times before. Even with brick, mortar and glass to separate him from the interior, the discordant grate of his deputy's snores were a cheerless reminder, there was no glad heart, soft bed and loving arms to welcome him home. But, then this wasn't exactly what he'd call home anymore. It was time he came to terms with that fact of life. He wasn't pleased with his melancholy mood of late. Self pity had never been part of his constitution and he objected to it's presence now. He gave himself a mental kick in the ass, and opened the door.

^..^

Festus was dozing in Matt Dillon's office chair. Hands braced behind his neck, supporting lolling head and leaning back so far, he was nearly fully reclined. His scuffed booted legs were crossed and propped on the desk, spurs digging into the already scarred surface. The jailhouse cat, Ol'scudder was sprawled belly up, in his lap and snoring as well.

Dillon's entrance so startled the pair, that Festus jumped to his feet, grabbed for his pistol, while ol'Scudder shot straight up in the air, back arched, tail plumed and voiced a loud yowl of distress.

Hagen reholstered his weapon, his rough voice gravelly from sleep, "Matthew, how many times do I hafta tell ya, not to sneak up on a feller like that?"

Dillon set his rifle and bags on the work table and hung up his coat and hat, ignoring his deputy's admonishment. "Things been quiet?" He asked.

Hagen nodded, "Mostly, onliest thing that happened was Arnie Raether went an'broke his leg, after jumpin' off the bar at the Bull's Head."

"What was he doing on the bar?"

"Chasing ol' Harry Larsen."

Arnie was fifty-five and Harry a good ten years older, neither man belonged on top of a saloon bar. "Why, was he chasing Harry Larsen?"

"Cause he was after Miss Lou Lou's pet chicken, Eunice May. You know how Miss Lou Lou feels about that red hen of hers. Everyone knows, you ain't agonna git on Miss Lou Lou's good side, if'n you ain't being nice to that cranky ol' bird."

Dillon shook his head, trying to dislodge the image. He changed the subject. "Any mail?"

"It's in your desk drawer, like I always put it." His claim only true, half the time. Hagen opened the drawer and Matt removed the mail. He shuffled through the lot, stopping when he came to the one post marked New Orleans. He was puzzled for the flowery handwriting was unfamiliar and there was no return address. Still, his heart picked up pace. He wanted to rip open the envelope, but not with Festus there.

Ol'Scudder jumped on top of the desk and rubbed his head against Dillon's side. Matt stepped back. He scowled at his deputy, "Do something with that cat would you?"

Hagen picked up the old tom. Cat hair filled the air. The deputy gave him a scratch between the ears and the cat responded with a loud purr. "Did you git yourself some supper, Mathew? You want me to go on down to Delmonico's n' fetch you somethin' to eat?. Prairie dog stew was plumb larapin tonight."

"Yeah, thanks 'n take that cat out with you." Dillon's affirmative reply had nothing to do with filling an empty belly. His full thought was on the contents of the letter.

He waited, back turned, listening to Hagen's spurs jingling and his boot heels tapping a rhythm, as he walked out the building. The muffled chink and tap continued, even after the door was closed, slowly fading away. A slight tremor marked Matt's normal steady hand as he began to rip open the envelope, with the first tear the door opened again.

"Heard you were back in town. Did you have a good trip Marshal?" Nathan Burke, Freight Office Manager, walked right in the building to stand next to Dillon.

"It went fine Burke. Was there something you needed?"

"No, no, I just thought I'd welcome you back to town, fill you in on the latest comings and goings. Festus isn't always as observant as he ought to be, you know."

Dillon waited for Burke to continue, but he could tell the busybody had spied the letter from New Orleans. "Well?" Matt prodded.

Burke moved closer for a better angle, "Um, there was this big ruckus at the Bull's Head the other night."

"I heard about Arnie Raether's leg and Miss Lou Lou's chicken, Eunice May."

"Oh, you did …" Burke sounded disappointed.

The letter in Matt's hand seemed to have a pulse of it's own, he had to get rid of Burke. He scowled and then winced. "Speaking of the Bull's Head … I'm a … kind of thirsty, you think you could head on down there and bring me back a pail of beer, tell Lou Lou, I'll even up with her, tomorrow."

"Sure thing." Burke replied obligingly, figuring when he returned, he'd be offered a fair share of the brew and some inside information regarding that letter from New Orleans.

Alone again, with the letter for dubious company, he made his move, aware somewhere in the back of his brain, he would likely be interrupted again. He was, it was Doc Adams who entered the jailhouse next. This time the Marshal made no excuse to be rid of the other man.

"I just got back from the Schneider place, I saw your horse in his stall. Saw Esmeralda's 'for sale' sign was down, I figured I'd find you here. You buy the mare?"

"Yeah." He held the envelope out for the old man to see. "What do you make of this?"

"It's from New Orleans, but that's not Kitty's handwriting. For heaven's sake, why haven't you opened it up?"

"I was about to, but Festus and Burke got in the way, I've got one headed to Delmonicos for supper and the other, to Bull's for beer, I don't figure they'll be gone long."

"You want me to leave, too?" Adams asked.

"No." Dillon replied, for he had few secrets from the old man. With a purpose, he ripped off the end of the envelope and slid out the enclosed papers.


	8. Chapter 8

8

Inside, were three sheets of paper. He noted the same flowery handwriting on the first page as was on the envelope, he glanced at the note; it was short.

 _Monsieur,_

 _I send these letters, because I think it is important that you see them both. Mademoiselle Russell was going to send the nicely folded one, but I thought you should see the other one too. I found it in the garbage._

 _Mademoiselle is well, but weary and sad. She do what she must do for her father._

 _I think Mademoiselle would not be pleased that I send this to you. She is a woman of great pride and honor, who will do her duty without thought to her own happiness._

 _C'est cela l'amour, tout donner, tout sacrifier sans espoir de retour._

 _I sign this as,_

 _one who cares._

Dillon frowned, puzzling over the letter and who sent it. He handed it to Doc. "What is she saying … at the end, there?"

Doc squinted, he'd been exposed to French during the war when stationed in Louisiana, and had studied Latin as a young medical student; the one being an evolution of the other. "Near as I can figure out, it says something like, 'that is love, to give away everything, to sacrifice everything, without the slightest desire to get anything in return.'"

Matt looked at the floor, a muscle in his jaw twitched and he tried to swallow it away. It took mettle to read the next page. This letter was clearly written in Kitty's hand. The formal embossed heading, held the name of her father's company; the high quality parchment, crisp and precisely folded. This was bereft of emotion; as if she were writing to a business associate, there was no warmth or affection, certainly, there was no love. His heart chinked. He read the words and then stared at the paper until the handwriting blurred.

Doc slid the page from his hand, and read the contents before setting it down on the desk. "What does the last letter say?" The old man asked.

Matt shook his head, his vision too clouded by the salty burn in his tired eyes to read. Wordlessly, he handed the final paper to Doc, and turned his back. Adams glanced at the feminine monogrammed stationery, it was familiar to them both, "Matt, I don't think you … this is personal …"

"Just read it, Doc …"

The page was crumpled, although the worst of the wrinkles had been eased by the structure of the envelope it had been encased in. The paper was soiled and some of the words smeared beyond recognition. Doc read haltingly, and stopped periodically to see if Matt wanted him to continue but Dillon listened stoically, head down, hands jammed in his pant pockets.

 _My dearest Matt,_

 _I can't begin to tell you how much I look forward to your letters. Somedays, it seems they are he only thing that keeps me going, and looking forward to tomorrow. Do you know that? How could you? But, you know me so well, better than I've ever let anyone know me._

 _It's been days and days since we've seen sun shine. Rain is constant and everything feels damp and cold. How I wish I could see the sun sparkle on the snow, clean and pure, feel the crisp cool winter air against my face again._

 _My father is always demanding something of me, which, I find difficult to give. He is on medication which alters his mind, and I never know what to expect from him, he can change in the blink of an eye. He says mean, hateful things, cursing me and even my dead mother. Yet, there are times I feel he does care for me, as a parent does their child, but mostly I think he is using me. I know he is ill and in pain, and I feel guilty for resenting him. But, I do._

 _I am so lonely. Heartsick, is the word, I miss everyone back in Dodge, I miss seeing a friendly smile; a caring look. I miss Doc's wise counsel, I miss Festus and that way he has of making me laugh at the oddest times, and Newly's common sense. Most of all, I miss you. I miss being held in your arms, your kisses, your passion, I miss the heat of our nights together and the first light of morning being held safe and warm in your embrace. I am so lost, adrift, without anchor, or direction, just moving from day to day with no hope of a better tomorrow._

 _Please keep writing, I need you so._

 _Kitty_

Doc finished reading, his voice at the end had been little more than a hoarse whisper, that stuttered over the personal sentiments, and insights into the private life Matt and Kitty, kept secreted away from prying eyes. He placed the letter on top of the other two on Matt's desk and then took a thread-bare handkerchief from his pocket and gave his nose a good blow.

There was silence between them. Then abruptly, Matt gathered the letters together, folding and sliding them back into the envelope and placing it in the inside breast pocket of his vest.

"You're going to New Orleans." It was a statement of fact, as far as Doc was concerned.

Dillon shook his head. "No."

"What? You can't be serious." Adams, was incredulous.

"The reason she left Dodge City in the first place was to prove to herself, she could live her life without me." He ran splayed fingers through hair, which was in need of a good trim. It curled over his ears and at the collar of his shirt. "'Left on her own terms.' that's what she said, in that letter she wrote to me, right before she left." He walked over to the work table and started to empty out his saddle bag, while Doc watched. It was a routine task he'd done time and again — empty the saddlebags and pack them up again, ready for the next trip. He stopped suddenly, overcome by an overwhelming sense of loss. "I want her home." He stood absolutely still for a moment. Every muscle of his body achingly taunt. He looked at the saddlebag in his hand, and then slammed it violently against the wall. The jail keys fell from the peg and hit the floor with a loud dull clank.

Doc took a step forward, "Then go and bring her home."

"Home." That one word encompassing the true meaning of love. He shook his head. "I'm not going to drag her back here on the basis of a letter, she didn't mean for me to see."

"She needs you."

Matt thought of that Russell pride, knew too, the strength it had taken Kitty to leave Dodge City in the first place. Over the years, he'd taken so much from her. He owned her the right to deal with life in her own way, without his interference. He shook his head, again.

"You're a damn fool, Matt Dillon." Doc told him, not for the first time.

The Marshal exhaled, in reply.

It was at this point, a noisy ruckus occurred outside the jailhouse. It was heralded by the jingle of spurs, thud of boots and sudden yowl of Ol'Scudder, the jailhouse cat. Then the crash came like sudden thunder, followed by a colorful rain of cuss words, "You mule brain Burke, why can't you watch where you're agoin'?

"Me! You're the Jackass! You even hee-haw like one. Look what you just did."

The commotion cut the tension between Dillon and Adams. Doc went to the door and opened it, to find Festus and Burke sprawled on the boardwalk, a steaming bowl of prairie dog stew dripping from the top of Hagen's head, and the beer pail tipped over, leaking it's contents onto Burke's crotch. Ol'Scudder, was lapping up the brew as fast as it flowed.

"Good heavens, you two, get up off of there before you get frozen to the boardwalk!"

The hapless pair, awkwardly righted themselves. Burke actually getting to his feet first and offering a helping hand to the deputy. "'pears you ain't got 'nuff sense to keep yur britches dry." Festus said, with a fair amount of glee, pointing at the spot on the center of the other man's pants.

"Looks like you missed your mouth." Burke countered, as Festus removed the bowl from his head and retrieved his soiled hat, "Big as it is, I can't figure out how you could miss it."

From across the street, Newly O'Brien, on his way home from the Lady Gay spied the ballyhoo at the jail. He ran over to see what was going on.

Catching sight of Dillon at the door, he pushed between the squabblers and offered a friendly smile and welcome, "Glad to have you back in town, Marshal."

Dillon replied with a nod, casting a side glance at Festus and Burke who were now, simultaneously, pushing their way inside the building.

"Looks like Burke done ruined your supper, Matthew. I'll go on back to Delmonicos and see if I can rustle up somethin' else fer you to eat. That was the last of the Prairie Dog stew."

"Don't worry about it, Festus."

With the empty beer bucket in hand, Burke offered, "I can head back to Bull's and get another pail full for you."

Matt shook his head, "No, thanks Burke, guess I kind of lost my taste for beer tonight."

He put a hand on Doc's shoulder for a brief moment, before moving to his desk. Hope now growing, where despair had lived, as words and phrases of her letters came back to him. She wanted him to keep writing. For today, that was enough. He'd read what she wanted him to know and what was in her heart. This was the day he'd been waiting to celebrate. It wasn't exactly what he'd expected, but it was a start. Kitty had read his love letters and had replied, after a fashion, with one of her own. He reached in the bottom drawer of the desk and removed the unopened bottle of Napoleon Brandy. "Newly, would you mind handing me the mugs, over there?"

"Sure thing." O'Brien, did as directed, retrieving the tray of mismatched and chipped coffee mugs from the small table next to the stove.

Dillon opened the bottle and poured a generous amount in each vessel. No one missed the fact that this was Kitty's favorite brandy. He raised his cup, it was the one in a blue willow pattern. "Gentlemen, a toast."

"What are we toasting to, Mathew?" Festus asked.

The envelope inside his vest, pulsed against his heart; a reminder of what he'd had, and what he'd make damn sure, he'd have again.

"To coming home."

the end


End file.
